


Pease, Please

by vetiverite



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Floof, Fluff, Fluff and Food, Food, Gen, Mush in a Manner of Speaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-07 22:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20469167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: A lesson in cooking set to rhyme.





	Pease, Please

**Author's Note:**

> This arose out of a lovely group conversation on Tumblr about how much we wished Poldark involved more dinner than drama.

“Pease porridge,” Demelza prompted.

Jeremy gave it some thought. “Hot.”

“Yeeess,” his mother encouraged with a sly glance. “Pease porridge—”

“Cold!” piped Clowance, gaily thrusting her small hands wrist-deep into the stoneware bowl of soaked yellow split peas. She knew she oughtn’t, but their texture and gleam were irresistible.

“Don’t ‘ee dare!” Laughing, Demelza whisked the bowl out of reach. Well she remembered doing the same as a child, but Clowance had only just been petting Garrick. “Now I’ll have to wash them all over. I wonder where they’ll go next?”

“Crock?” Jeremy guessed.

“The whole verse, please.”

“Pease porridge in the crock nine days old.”

Demelza turned to choose a fat, amber-peeled onion from Prudie’s market basket. “Yes, Lord love you! But we won’t leave it that long. Three days at most, and then Prudie’ll make little cakes of it and fry ‘em in butter. Won’t you like that?” She deftly removed the onion from its casing and waited for Jeremy to claim the peels. As Clowance loved grainy textures, he drew satisfaction from papery, brittle ones that he could crease with his fingernails.

Footsteps outside, the scrape of boots on the jack: Ross, fresh from the road. Tossing a string-tied parcel on the table, he drew Demelza into an embrace, chaste on account of the children. She smelled wind and salt on his coat lapel and leaned heavily into him with a sense of fulfillment. Home, all of them that belonged to her, even Prudie out singin' in the yard!

“Papa, listen!” demanded Jeremy. ‘Pease porridge hot—’”

“Never could stand the stuff,” Ross muttered. A lie, of course, but Demelza poked his shin with her toe all the same. She pricked loose the string with the point of her knife and began to unwrap the greasy brown paper.

“’Pease porridge cold—’”

“Ross!” wailed Demelza, greatly dismayed. “This be gammon! I asked for ham!”

“Gammon, hammon,” Clowance helpfully suggested.

“Of ham they had none,” explained Ross. “Nor of bacon. Believe me; I went first to Sawle, then all the way to St. Ann’s to consult with a very learned butcher.” He lowered himself onto the bench and dragged a wriggling Clowance up onto his lap. “He said gammon would do as well. It is halfway between bacon and ham.”

Demelza let out a sigh of practiced dramatic effect. “But not quite either, though at this late hour I suppose it will have to do.” She sliced the onion in half crossways, showing it to Clowance. “See the rings?”

“Can I wear one, Mama?” piped the little miss.

“MAY I wear one,” her mother corrected.

“May I wear one, Mama?”

“You may not.” Demelza toed Ross’ shin once more, this time with teasing affection. “At least not until I wear one. A proper one, that is. I’ll settle for gammon ‘stead of ham, but not for tin in place of gold.”

Ross reached out and wound one of his wife’s curls around his finger. “I’m quite happy with copper, myself.“


End file.
